


Catacombs

by adelaide_rain



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelaide_rain/pseuds/adelaide_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Peter Guillam likes it rough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catacombs

Dim lighting that buzzes incessantly is the hallmark of the Brixton waiting room. Boring company, too. Strange how a group of men who make blackmail and assassination their business can be so dull, Ricki thinks.

It’s certainly the case today; the only other person in the room is Cy Vanhofer, reading his pretentious newspaper and spreading it out on the table before him like a picnic blanket.

Ricki’s got a dog-eared copy of Catch 22 that someone’s left on a shelf but he’s finding it hard to concentrate. His mind keeps wandering elsewhere – the upcoming job in Vienna floats to the forefront of his mind, and is replaced by annoyance when Cy clears his throat loudly like he’s hacking up a furball. 

Mostly the object of his distraction is Peter Guillam. 

They’ve been sleeping together – secretly of course – for a good few months now, half a year. There are rules, Peter insists: No relationship, no emotional ties, just the physical. The trouble is that Ricki’s never been very good at following orders and this is no different. Despite his best efforts Ricki has been developing some of those forbidden emotions for Peter.

He could call it all off. If he doesn’t see Peter anymore then he can’t fall any deeper and Ricki’s just as aware as Peter is of the dangers that a relationship could bring. 

Another page is turned decisively, as though the next set of words might take his mind away from Peter and the messes Ricki always seems to get entangled in.

A paragraph in and he’s distracted once more: this time it’s voices in the corridor. 

The deep boom of Ricki’s boss, Jim Prideaux, is unmistakable. The other voice is softer and clipped; to Ricki it’s every bit as recognisable as Jim’s, if only because he’s been listening to it most nights after work: Peter. The thought of seeing him here makes Ricki’s stomach clench and he thinks keep walking as though he can bend their wills with his thoughts.

It doesn’t work, of course.

Jim enters first. Although he isn’t Ricki’s type, he’s good-looking in a tough, military sort of way. Everything about him is tough and military, from his boots to his smile, though Ricki knows him well enough there are gentle, generous eddies beneath the surface.

Peter is the opposite. People look at his tidy hair and the tailored suits that make him look so fuckable and assume he’s just a pretty boy whose idea of violence is breaking a nail. It’s probably for the best that they don’t know how many different ways he could kill them.

Ricki’s bad luck continues when Jim calls Cy into his office. With much effort and noise the newspaper is folded up and tucked under his arm. Finally the operation is complete and they head out to the corridor. 

It leaves Ricki alone with Peter and they stare at each other. In situations like this, Ricki has no idea where he stands. At each other’s homes they can let their guards down – within reason. Here, though, Ricki has no idea what they are to one another and he’s so on edge he can’t even summon a smirk.

“Fancy getting an early dinner?” Peter’s voice is relaxed and his words come with an easy, charming smile. Ricki envies his composure. 

“Sure.” 

Predictably they go to Peter’s place. It’s spotless and stylish, whereas Ricki’s own flat has piles of books and old newspapers everywhere that Peter always frowns at. 

Going into the living room Peter gestures that Ricki should sit but remains standing himself. He frets for a moment, pacing. He turns his back to Ricki for a moment as though struggling to compose himself. When he turns back, his eyes are clear and the weight of his worry has lifted: he’s made a decision. When he speaks his voice is clear and certain. 

“I want you to hit me.”

Ricki blinks and shifts in his chair. “Sorry?”

Peter taps his fingers against his leg. “It- relaxes me. Takes my mind off – things I’d rather not dwell on. I trust you, Ricki. Should I?”

“If you have to ask then you don’t really trust me.” 

A smile dances over Peter’s lips and he looks very wicked. “And expecting a straight answer from Ricki Tarr is like expecting the truth from the devil.”

Ricki shrugs. “Alright then: Yes, you can trust me. Neither of us would be here if we didn’t trust each other.”

There’s a long moment of silence as Peter looks at him and Ricki resists the urge to squirm under his gaze. 

Finally Peter deigns to give him more information. “The reason you’re here now is that Jim has told me about some of your jobs. About some of the more – unconventional - methods you use.”

Ah. It clicks into place. 

Everyone knows that Ricki isn’t afraid to sleep with someone to get his job done. Fringe benefits, he jokes. Most people only know about the women; that he also sleeps with men is on a need-to-know basis. A lot of people in the business use sex as a tool, and Ricki finds sex with men a very useful one. If a Russian spy wants to pick up a bloke in a bar or male prostitute – or a British scalphunter disguised as one – he’s not going to bring an entourage. Get him alone in the hotel room and the job’s pretty much done for you. Let him fuck you if that’s what it takes to get his guard down. 

Sometimes more unusual tricks are sometimes called for. Like his last job in Berlin. The mark was an important official with ties to Moscow Centre. A man who likes tying his boys up and using vicious, wonderful toys on them. Since Ricki is by no means averse to that he had no qualms playing the part of his boytoy for a few months. It earned him the official’s trust and meant Ricki had the opportunity to get his hands on some of the best blackmail material of his career.

It’s not just work - he’s been on both sides of the equation for pleasure as well, and unless he’s very much mistaken that’s what Peter’s talking about. 

“What exactly do you want?” 

“For christ’s sake, Ricki,” Peter snaps, and Ricki reaches forward to grab Peter’s lapels and tug, pulling him off balance and onto his knees. Ricki watches Peter’s surprise change to delight as he realises that they’re playing. The gratitude on his face makes Ricki’s heart twist.

“What do you want?” Ricki asks again.

“I want you to spank me,” Peter says, keeping his voice soft and deferential. 

“Have you been a bad boy?” Ricki strokes his fingers through Peter’s hair and smiles when Peter leans into his touch. 

“A bit,” Peter murmurs, his attention on being petted. “Past transgressions.”

“And this will help?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Ricki says, pulling on Peter’s hair so that his face is angled up and he kisses him. Peter cedes control of the kiss and Ricki is consumed by a sudden possessiveness, thrusting his tongue into Peter’s mouth, fingers still tangled in his hair. “Up,” he says, breathless. “Across my lap.”

Peter stands fluidly, and the grace with which he arranges himself over Ricki’s lap makes him shiver. Peter’s still fully clothed: white pinstripe shirt and three-piece suit in dove grey - probably costs more than Ricki makes in a month. Worth every penny, Ricki thinks as he runs his hand over the firm curve of Peter’s arse, the expensive fabric of his trousers smooth under his fingers.

“You look beautiful like this,” Ricki murmurs and Peter makes a contented noise. The position he’s in means that his arms are on the arm of the chair and he rests his head on them, smiling faintly. He looks at Ricki over his shoulder; his whole focus is on Ricki, like nothing else in the world is worthy of his attention. Not impatient or annoyed; just patiently expectant, waiting until Ricki is ready.

Normally their relationship is turbulent at best – Ricki would say that they are equals but only because they freely wrench power from the other depending on what mood they’re both in.

This is completely different. Peter has given up control willingly, a gesture of trust and need that touches Ricki - he has to push away the hope that Peter might want something more. Just because Peter trusts him doesn’t mean he wants anything more than what they have. Ricki will take anything he can get and if this is what Peter wants, Ricki will give it his all.

He quiets his doubts and continues to pet Peter, sliding his hands down strong, slim thighs. The skin beneath the fabric is milky, Ricki thinks, remembering debauched nights past; it will show bruises so prettily.

“You’re going to be black and blue when I’m finished with you,” Ricki says, pitching his voice low and smooth. “Your lovely arse is going to have my handprints all over it. Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Peter says. “I want that.” A note of pleading enters his voice but he doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but let Ricki touch him however he likes.

“You're a bad boy,” Ricki says and shivers at the quiet moan that escapes from Peter’s lips. He licks his lips and breathes deep, releasing tension as he does so until the only thing on his mind is what Peter has asked of him. Confidence grows in him with every breath until he feels strong, controlled, ready.

“I want you to lie there and let me do things my way,” Ricki says, on hand resting to Peter’s back, the other returning to stroke his arse. “And if you want me to stop you say red, alright?”

“Alright,” Peter murmurs and he closes his eyes.

They’ll keep the trousers on for now, Ricki thinks. He wants to know what that feels like, what it sounds like. He’ll strip Peter slowly so that they can both experience the different sensations, build up the anticipation.

Lifting his right hand, Ricki breathes out slowly and lets go of the last of his doubts.

The first crack of his hand meeting Peter’s arse is the most beautiful sound in existence. 

Peter gives a yelp and his hips jerk forward but there’s nowhere for them to go other than to grind on Ricki’s thighs. Watching Peter carefully for any indication that he wants to stop, Ricki hits him again – firm, open palm, right across the meat of the buttock. This time Peter gasps but nothing more and his hips stay where they are.

Ricki builds up slowly, keeping the same tempo but smacking harder each time. The sounds Peter makes escalate to strangled whines that Ricki could get drunk on and he licks his lips, and hits again. His dick is pressing against his zipper uncomfortably but that’s not what Ricki’s concerned with. Yes, of course he wants to come and preferably in Peter, but this is more than that. Bigger – more important. He’s being trusted and that’s the most important thing of all. More important than Ricki would ever have thought. 

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, breaking up his sentence with another smack. Peter moans in response and there are words in there so Ricki hits him again. “Shush. Unless you’re asking me to stop, shush and stop thinking.”

Peter’s shoulders are still tense, a sure sign that he’s still thinking, so Ricki continues. The repetitive movement is almost meditative and he watches Peter closely. Watches the way his eyelashes flutter with every slap, the way his lips open to expel a gasp or a moan or a cry. Behind every one of those sounds is a thought, the thing that Peter wants not to think about. Ricki could have a fair guess of what that might be – Peter’s had a haunted look ever since his network in North Africa was blown. 

It wasn’t your fault, Ricki wants to whisper to him, to sprinkle kisses over his forehead, his eyelids. There was nothing you could have done.

But words aren’t good enough; only this. 

“I think we should move this along,” Ricki says, and is pleased to see that Peter doesn’t open his eyes when Ricki reaches under his hips to unbutton his trousers. It means he’s getting in the headspace he needs to be. Not there yet, but on the way. 

Hooking his thumbs under the waistband of the boring black briefs that Peter always wears, Ricki pushes both briefs and trousers down to Peter’s knees. It’ll restrict his movement but he’s not going anywhere. Besides, when Ricki’s being spanked, being tied up always gets him in the right mood; maybe it’s the same for Peter. 

With the trousers out of the way, Ricki can see his handiwork. The pale skin of Peter’s arse is delightfully pink and when Ricki runs his hand over it he finds it hot to the touch. Just pink; not red yet, not with the two layers of material in the way. 

Continuing to stroke the hot skin, Ricki licks his lips. The sound of the smacks through the trousers was slightly dull and muffled. Now, skin to skin, it’ll be sharper. Thoughts of the sounds that Peter will make run through Ricki’s head and he has to swallow down a moan. 

“I’m going to hit you,” Ricki purrs. “Just like you asked me to. And you’re going to take it.”

Peter mumbles something that sounds like yes, and breathes deeply, his eyes closed. He looks more relaxed than Ricki has ever seen him and those forbidden emotions rise up again, fluttering in his chest like birds against the bars of a cage. He doesn’t push them away; instead he embraces them. This is all for Peter, after all. It’s just a different way for Ricki to express his feelings.

Below the hem of his shirt, Peter’s skin slowly turns red and glowing under Ricki’s ministrations.

Cries that were loud at first have become quiet moans, barely more than a sigh and quieter than the sounds of the slaps that fill the otherwise quiet room. Peter’s relaxing slowly – so bloody slowly that it’s almost frustrating, but that will just make it all the more satisfying for both of them when it finally happens.

He’s stopped moving away from Ricki’s touch, not even the slightest jerk forward. His cock is pressed against Ricki’s thigh, hard and hot; a contrast to his peaceful expression.

By the time Peter’s shoulders finally relax, Ricki’s hand is tingling and his arm is aching. He doesn’t stop, not right away - he doesn’t know if Peter will ever let him do this again so he wants to make sure this is burned into both of their memories.

His hand comes to rest on Peter’s arse, stroking the hot skin and sliding a finger between the cheeks.

“You were so good,” Ricki murmurs. “So good.”

Peter’s eyes open and he looks at Ricki over his shoulder. He looks so content, a small smile resting on his lips and Ricki thinks that should be his default expression. Sliding his spare hand up Peter’s back, Ricki runs his fingers through his hair. For a long moment they just smile at each other but the slight shift in Ricki’s position has brought his attention to the way his dick is pressing against his zipper, to Peter’s erection pressed against his thigh.

“I want to fuck you,” Ricki says, still stroking Peter’s silky hair. “Reward you for being such a good boy. How does that sound?”

“Good. Great. Really great.” Peter blinks slowly and his smile widens – it’s still lazy and content, catlike, but it’s indication of how much he wants it despite his brain refusing to supply him with words of more than two syllables.

He reaches forward to the end table and flips the top of it open to reveal a secret compartment. Ricki almost laughs to see condoms and lube alongside a pistol and ammunition. Peter is always prepared.

When Ricki takes them from him, Peter settles back down on the arm of the sofa and closes his eyes. This is an excellent position, it gives Ricki all the access he needs. 

Smothering some of the lube on his fingers, Ricki slides a finger between the firm, red cheeks of Peter’s ass and slides it in. It goes in easily and Peter gives only a muffled whine when Ricki adds a second. 

It’s easy to open him up, easier than Ricki’s ever known with Peter. A sure sign that he’s relaxed for once. By the time he slides a third finger in, Peter’s breathing is deeper, shaky. He doesn’t move his hips as Ricki fucks him with his fingers, and Ricki likes that. Likes having Peter lying on his lap, still half in his suit as Ricki fucks his fingers into his ass with a slick, lewd sound.

“Up,” Ricki says. Peter was ready for his cock a good few minutes ago but having such a good view of fingering him wasn’t something that Ricki could convince himself to give up easily. 

Since Peter is still relaxed and spacey from the spanking, Ricki has to help him into position. After throwing the trousers and briefs to the floor, freeing his legs, Ricki settles Peter into position astride Ricki’s lap. He pushes the jacket from Peter’s shoulders and throws that to the floor to join his trousers. Ricki’s lips quirk; that Peter doesn’t admonish him for treating his clothes so badly is another sign of just how relaxed he is. 

Now Peter is wearing only his shirt, waistcoat and tie; Ricki thinks he’ll leave him like this. The mixture of buttoned-up and fucked-out is just lovely, and his cock thrusts proudly beneath the hem of his shirt. Ricki reaches up to straighten his hair. 

“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” He asks, running both of his hands down the soft waistcoat then back up to tease nipples that are invisible beneath the cloth but that Ricki can feel beneath his thumbs, hard and erect. Peter sharply draws in a lungful of air and whines at Ricki’s attentions. 

Ricki drops his hands and Peter whines again, frowning at the loss of contact. 

“I’m here,” Ricki soothes, wrapping a hand around the back of Peter’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss. He tries to undo his jeans one-handed but fails and has to use both. He doesn’t break the kiss, and doubts Peter would let him in any case. The kiss is so desperate that it’s as though Peter couldn’t breathe if the air wasn’t filtered through Ricki’s lungs. 

The first touch of his hand to his dick makes Ricki gasp with just how fucking _good_ it feels – he’s so sensitive, like he’s been untouched for weeks instead of hours. But then, Ricki has no idea how long it’s been – the time seems to have melted together; or soared away like butterflies made of ticking seconds. Time isn’t important anymore. 

The gasp broke the kiss and Ricki takes the opportunity to grab the lube and pool it into his hand, ready to slick himself up. 

The need to fuck Peter is like a deep thrum under his skin and Ricki rips open the condom wrapper with his teeth. Jesus, he wants this so much. It’s like the pressure building up before an earthquake, like if he doesn’t come soon he’ll explode, literally, a human volcano. But overriding that, still, is the wish to take care of Peter, and once the condom is on Ricki’s hand goes to stroke Peter’s arse with just enough pressure to remind Peter of what they’ve done. It seems to ground him as the awareness – and the tension that goes with it – had started to creep back into Peter’s face. But now his smile turns languid and his eyes flutter shut. 

Ricki slides lube over his dick with his other hand, faint tremors running through his body at how _good_ it feels. When he’s completely covered and slippery, he wipes his hand on his jeans and slides it around to join the other, gently caressing Peter’s arse.

Peter hums and leans forward so that their foreheads are touching. Ricki lets his fingers explore Peter’s arse and back for as long as he can resist, then one hand goes to the base of his dick to hold himself steady while the other wraps around Peter’s hip and pushes him gently into place.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Ricki looks at Peter, who gazes right back, his eyes serene and his lips still curved in that gentle smile.

It’s just sex, Ricki tells himself. They’ve done it before, so many times. It’s just sex, he repeats, trying to convince himself, to push away the emotions that suddenly burst into bloom like a fireball.

His hand tightens on Peter’s hip and Ricki presses into Peter and it _is_ just sex, it’s just like every other time apart from in all the ways that it isn’t.

They’re still looking into each other’s eyes as Ricki slides in, slow and careful. It’s tight and perfect, and Ricki’s nails dig into Peter’s hip in an unconscious attempt to grasp control, but the pleasure-pain makes Peter give a low breathy moan; that in turn makes Ricki groan and snap his hips forward, pushing all the way into Peter’s body.

As he starts to thrust up Peter rocks his hips downward to help him. The rhythm is perfect and soon Ricki is unable to think, unable to do anything other than thrust into Peter, gazing into his pale eyes. And Peter looks back, looking at Ricki like he’s seeing something in him that he hasn’t seen before. He smiles, softly, and lefts his head fall forward. 

“Ricki,” he whispers as their foreheads touch, but he doesn’t say anything else. Ricki tries to ignore the way his heart twists, how badly he wishes that Peter means what Ricki wants him to mean. 

Trying to still the thoughts he thrusts harder. It’s difficult in this position but he braces himself on the arm of the chair and drives his hips up, hard. Peter’s head falls back and he starts making mewling sounds, hands curling in Ricki’s sweater for support. 

And _god_ it’s good. Soon all he can think about is how good it feels and shortly after that he can’t think of anything at all. Peter is so tight and hot, and he keeps making little aborted noises that sound like he might be trying to say Ricki’s name. 

Ricki’s arms go tightly around Peter, his breath coming fast as he feels the wave of his orgasm rushing over him. 

“Peter,” he whispers, and there’s no way he can keep the gentleness, the adoration, out of his voice now. Peter looks down at him, not with disgust or annoyance or any of the other things that Ricki feared he’d see. Instead he smiles and they’re still looking into each other’s eyes as Ricki increases the pace; as their breathing quickens; as they come together.

And they’re still looking at each other as they come back down, as Ricki’s softening cock slips from Peter’s arse. Peter whimpers and Ricki presses two fingers inside so that he feels a little less empty.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, kissing him. “It’s alright, you were so good, so good,” but then he has to snap his mouth shut, trapping the words that try to escape behind his teeth. He leans his face into Peter’s neck, kissing his soft skin and _wanting_ more than he can remember ever wanting before. He wants to tell Peter how he feels but he can’t break this moment. Instead he lifts his head and kisses Peter, smothering his words.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says eventually. When Peter tries to stand his legs are less than stable so Ricki gives him a gallant smile and sweeps him up into a princess carry.

Peter can’t stop laughing as Ricki carries him into the bathroom. He throws the towels to the floor and sets Peter down on them and turns on the taps.

“You silly bastard,” Peter says, and the softness of his smile makes Ricki’s heart ache. He has to look away and concentrates instead on the water filling up the tub but Peter leans against him, humming contentedly and Ricki has to bite his lip, hard.

“Come on,” he says, turning off the taps and checking the water. Peter is still half-clothed so Ricki undresses him, throwing the shirt and waistcoat to the corner of the bathroom. He tries to help Peter into the bath but Peter bats him away so that he can undo Ricki’s jeans, strip him of his come-stained sweater and t-shirt. 

“You too,” he says, almost a sigh. “You first.”

Ricki gazes down at the water then at Peter, whose hands are wrapped around Ricki’s own, tugging. Something in Ricki’s chest tugs too, and he nods. 

“Alright.”

He gets into the water and Peter follows him. It’s a small tub and it takes some manoeuvring to get comfortable, especially since Peter’s arse is fire-engine red and must be sensitive. When they’re settled, though, Peter gives a contented sigh and leans back against Ricki, entwining their fingers where their hands rest on his stomach.

It makes so many emotions roar through Ricki and he buries his head in Peter’s hair before he can give himself away. Post-orgasm, he feels more sensitive than ever, like he could give himself away with a wrong move. Considering that he has sex with other people as part of his job and has never done so yet, that’s a silly thought. 

That, of course, is part of the problem. He _doesn’t_ feel like this with anyone else. Only Peter ever makes him feel this vulnerable, like his emotions are laid out for everyone to see, to mock, to stamp on, to set fire to. He hates it – it’s a weakness he can’t afford in this job, in this life. Especially not when there’s no way it is returned. 

When the water starts to chill, they get out. Since Peter is still somewhat out of it, Ricki helps him to get dry. Once he’s dry himself, he starts to get dressed but Peter catches his wrist. 

“Stay,” he says. “Let’s have a nap.”

“Together?” Ricki bites his lip, sure he must have misunderstood or failing that, he’s dreaming. They have never slept in the same bed – if they’re at Ricki’s then Peter leaves after a quick clean-up and if they’re at Peter’s then the door is looked at pointedly. 

Ricki tries to quash the hope that rises in his chest but it won’t be denied. This is different –this must mean something. It might not mean that Peter feels what he does but maybe he’s thawing, maybe he doesn’t despise Ricki so much. 

When they’re lying in the bed together, side by side with Peter’s head nestled into the crook of Ricki’s neck, Ricki can’t sleep. On the one hand he wants to cherish this moment – like so many things that have happened today he is certain that it can’t come again – but on the other he’s sure that when Peter awakes, clear-headed, he’s going to kick Ricki out. 

So when Peter awakes after a few hours, blinking in the failing light of the afternoon, Ricki is fully prepared for an annoyed dismissal. 

What he gets instead is a soft, shy smile and a kiss to the lips. 

“Thank you,” Peter says, and Ricki smiles, lifting a hand to Peter’s hair and carding his fingers through it, needing contact to ground himself, to convince himself that this is reality. 

“Anytime,” Ricki says softly, wary tendrils of hope rising in him. 

Peter settles back down and takes Ricki’s hand, slotting their fingers together. “Why don’t we take the afternoon off? Go catch a film.”

“Yeah,” Ricki says, trying hard to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “That’d be nice.”

Neither of them move, though, and Ricki’s glad. If this one afternoon is all he gets, he’d rather spend it here, where he doesn’t have to share Peter with anyone. 

Ricki’s never been one for thinking too much of the future. Partly because the future is so uncertain for someone in his trade; and partly because the uncertainty of it both delights and confounds him. 

Like with Peter: the future could be full of kisses and fucking, of whispered endearments and cuddling, of tying Peter to the bed and dripping hot wax on him, of gagging him with his own tie, and learning all the ways to make him laugh, and sigh, and cry out his orgasm; or it could go back to how it was, to occasional sex and cordial conversations. 

Not knowing what to expect, Ricki has to take what he can get. 

Whatever the future holds, for this afternoon, Peter is his.


End file.
